


and we try to fix that which is broken

by ayuminb



Series: The Long Night [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (except there's not fluff oops), (seems i'm not done sinking further into hell), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Keeping Each Other Warm Trope, Ambiguous Sansa Stark, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dark Jon Snow, Everything is Different - Except Jon Still Goes to The Wall, Except Jon - Who Dies and Comes Back Different, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, Half-Sibling Incest, Idiots in lust, JonxSansaFanFiction 12 Days of Shipping, Post-Canon, Post-Series, The Long Night, The Sin is Too Real, Woman on Top, references to cunnilingus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 20:24:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13220553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: Jon comes back from the Great War with scars and a haunted look in his eyes. And Sansa wonders if that's what started it all.





	and we try to fix that which is broken

**Author's Note:**

> prequel to [a wicked thing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12885414). also written for [JonxSansaFF 12 Days of Shipping](http://jonxsansafanfiction.tumblr.com/).

Jon comes back from the Great War with scars and a haunted look in his eyes – quiet, subdued; a ghost of who he used to be.

 

Father and Robb and every other man who’d gone off to fight beyond The Wall against the Others had come back much the same, but they’d all been _happy_ to be back, even if it means facing what remains of the Long Night. They’ve all been tired and hurting but relieved nonetheless, rushing into the arms of their loved ones.

 

Not Jon; those Starks staying behind had welcomed him warmly, _lovingly_ , so very glad to see him alive. Even Sansa, who’d kept him at arms’ length ever since learning the meaning of bastard, had hugged him tight – she’d heard of enough horrors to last her a lifetime, had _seen_ some when White Walker managed to reach Winterfell after the Wall had fallen.

 

She is no longer an idealistic little girl, naive with a head full of songs; no, the harsh reality of life had sunk in the moment Father had received Uncle Benjen’s missive speaking of a mutiny – of Jon’s _death_. Her brother— _half-brother_ —who’d raised among the ranks until he’d been elected Lord Commander, who’d only ever done what was best for the realm. Killed by his own brothers.

 

 _They were not his true brothers_ , she thinks as she watches him undress now. _Robb and Bran and Rickon are, and they would never even think of turning their back on Jon_.

 

Sansa supposes the change in Jon happened _before_ the Great War – the betrayal he suffered, coming _back_. Perhaps that’s where it comes—the haunted look, the air of brokenness that surrounds him, the _scars_ that are not visible to the eye. She wonders if that’s what prompts her to seek him out, try to talk to him – _comfort_ him. Maybe it’s because he’s forgotten things now; when he first saw Robb and Father at Castle Black, _after_ , she’d been told—he’d taken some time to recognize them and when he did, he’d not called their names.

 

Brother, he’d said, Father. Little brother, little brother, little sister, he’d added, once in Winterefell, Lady Stark. And then, at _her_ , after staring a while, after she’d run into his arms on impulse because she was so happy he was alive, he’d called _her_ name.

 

“Sansa.”

 

In wonder, then. He calls her name in awe, too, now – _SansaSansaSansa_. Whispers and groans and moans and whimpers all kinds of rendition of it, growls it in her ear while he does all kinds of filthy things to her. There are times when he calls her _sister_ , too, with his cock buried deep into her cunt and his mouth leaving red blooms across her chest.

 

“Sansa,” he pushes her sodden cloak off her shoulders, consequences of the melting snow falling outside; their little trip to the Godswood, where he’d spent some time unraveling her with his mouth alone, “you look cold.”

 

She gasps, swallows the lump in her throat as her eyes drift down his nude body. “You don’t,” she says, a fact – Jon never seems to feel the _cold_ anymore; he says he does feel it, _always_ , but that he always feels warm with her around.

 

He smiles, a slow pull at the corner of his lips, finishes unlacing her gown and pushes it off her too. The air around them feels damp, almost frozen; his unused bedchamber, from long ago, a time where huddling for warm in a single room was not necessary. The bed is still neatly made, but with no fire in the hearth Sansa struggles to see him and to keep the cold away; it helps that he’s close, stroking her body as he unclothed her – she can already feel the heat pool low in her belly, course through her veins.

 

Once she’s stripped down to only her stockings, Jon carries her to the bed, making quick work of the furs so they can slip underneath. He kisses her then, the slow push and pull that drives her mad with want, urges her legs apart but Sansa stops him before he can do much more.

 

Jon frowns at her, but heeds her silent request.

 

“I want—” she takes a breath, gathers her courage “—I want to do something for you.”

 

His fingers tread close to her mound, occasionally tugging at the fine hair she has down there but not doing much else. “What is that?”

 

Jon, this Jon— _her Jon_ —forced to grow up too fast, too _soon_. Who’s had his dreams shattered, who’s been betrayed and broken and carries more scars on his body than should be allowed—one scars is one too many. Jon – drawing her _in_ like an unstoppable force, giving her tenderness when, by all _means_ , he should have none left to give, showing her a world of pleasure she could’ve never imagined, allowing her to explore her own boundaries and, oh, but she just can’t resist him, has no boundaries when it comes to him.

 

Giving him something _good_ in return – Sansa can do that.

 

“Lay back,” she says, pushing onto his shoulders until he does as requested; she presses a chaste kiss to his lips, and then leaves a trail hot, open-mouthed kisses as she goes down, down, _down_.

 

Sansa has no experience _doing_ this; oh, she’d heard whispers of it, thought it might please Jon if she tried it, but suddenly feels woefully inadequate when presented with the opportunity. She will try, though, for _Jon_ , so Sansa licks her lips and places a soft kiss to the tip of his cock, wondering a little at the salty flavor lingering there. Her tongue darts out to stroke over the head, tasting.

 

Jon hisses; his body shaking as he grasps the furs on top of his bed – the look of unadulterated _want_ that falls over his face makes her feels _powerful_.

 

She wraps her hand around him, slides her tongue from base to top and then sucks on the head, slowly going down as far as her mouth allows; it’s not much, but by the sounds falling past Jon’s lips, Sansa knows she’s doing _something_ right, _hums_ in satisfaction at the thought. He gasps, his hand tangling in her hair though he doesn’t pull; she can feel the muscles of his thighs shake under her arms, can see his free hand go white-knuckled due to the strength of his grip, and she wonders.

 

If this is how Jon feels when uses his mouth on her. Somehow she doubts it, her half-brother gives _her_ the control there, tells her to guide him by his hair. No, this is different; it’s the same feeling that sweeps over her when she gets to _ride_ him, when she sets the pace of their encounters.

 

With a soft popping sound, Sansa pulls him out of her mouth – Gods _help_ her, but Jon whimpers at that and the sound only makes her want him more.

 

He gives her a pleading look, stroking her cheek but not forcing her to do anything; his voice is barely a rasp. “Why’d you stop?”

 

Sansa takes to moving her hand up and down his cock, slowly, applying pressure as she’s seen him do sometimes – she smiles. “Are you cold, brother?”

 

Jon groans, bucking his hips into her hand. “No, no – never when I’m around you, Sansa, my beautiful sister.”

 

“I am,” she lets go of him and moves to straddle his hips, he moans again, thrusting his hips up to chase that friction. “Jon,” she rocks her hips once, “you said you’d keep me warm.”

 

“Aye,” he grabs her hips, pupils dilated, and helps her align herself over him, and _slowly_ —Sansa sinks onto his cock; he smirks. “Aye, I did.”


End file.
